Stardust Meridian
by ChocolateCarnival
Summary: There was no hymns or salvation dripping, magnesium sweet, from a dark glossa. He was an uncontained tempest dancing on the ruins of Praxus. After millions of vorns spent in forced stasis, the destruction of the grounds his own Energon consecrated, woke a motionless desecration. And deep within, vengeance burned ion bright. There was no stopping the political storm that was coming.


Hello My Honeys,

I feel like it has been forever since I have written anything. Its been MANY years since I last delved into the Transformers Fandom. I have decided to come back, yay. I cannot believe how much I missed this, there so much room to play. :)

This story is a mixture between the history presented in the Bay movies and IDW. The characters are a mixture of two worlds. Since I adore the designs of certain aspects in the films and IDW I'll post a list at the end of the chapter of the main characters origin/looks to be noted. (For imagination sake)

Other than that, this story is pretty Dark AU with a Gothic concept and lots of political intrigue and violence. It is written in two main story lines: the happenings after Praxus and the political unrest in Vos. It's quite complicated and intense but I do hope my Honey's will enjoy it.

For now, please mind the gore.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Mnemonic Despair**

Inverted and unmade, a black-sage world rose imposingly from the consecrated cries of living metal and floating ash. Flickering with the barest embers of life; a swirl of nebulae, dust, imploded rust and cosmic fields breached boldly into the galactic distance. Unnamed diodes and frequencies were blooming bright in primordial reality, eliciting a planetary cry long ignored by the impending fall of Cybertronian civilization.

It was chaos, it was life, it was death. It was _gods_ and _war _and _desolation_. It was hope, memory, fear, awe, infinite judgement—.

This was _his_ monochrome subset: the ionic blister of heated plating, tempered steel, gold filigreed claws, decorative crystal spires and razor-edged swords. Subvocal acoustics tremored with a series of warbled clicks and satisfied crooning, a single entity intent on carving a path towards the future. He was pure _regality_, black and white, order, chaos — an unmistakable bicoloured Prime forged in the depths of holy sanctity.

Like a crystal shard nurtured on death-stoked battlefields, the young Praxian had been sent to guard peace, carry the burden of justice and lead those harkened by hate into the light. He was designated _Iridescus_, the one who_ illuminates, refracts and juries over kin —_ even when long-ago he was known by the glyphs of another name.

Striving to become equality in the Dark Lands, the young warrior had risen from the Allspark to citate Primus' new covenant. He led dynasties of impeccable command, became the harbinger of the Golden Age and a spark that illuminated the incorruptible will of Cybertronian leadership. For three-hundred-and-seventy-twelve-thousand vorns he ruled, carrying the Matrix in his spark as he established what was known as the epoch of legislative innovation.

Alas, _Iridescus _never saw his work come to fruition. He simply vanished into thin air one orn, leaving behind a brittle seat of power and discontented advisors. Many speculated the Prime had been recalled by his creator. Others cried treason. There were several fractured records, hidden deep in the Iaconian Archive, that claimed enough opposition had been stirred to attempt a brutal assassination.

What no one could explain, however; was the overnight evolution of a thousand crystal shards piercing the Praxian spire where the Prime last resided. The mammoth structures had burrowed impossibly deep into the planetary surface, carving the foundations of what would become known as the Helix Gardens.

Over vorns of careful tending, the symbolic beauty heralded a thriving metropolis for the Assembly. As the pinnacle of Cybertronian culture, science, philosophy, medicine, art, ethics and politics, it took but a measly eight million planetary cycles for Praxus to establish its long-held age of neutrality and peace. By then, _Iridescus _was long lost to the annals of history — a once magnificent Prime reduced to nothing but a speck of thought enamelled in layers of deliberate misinformation.

The Great War's first razing strike against the Helix metropolis however, stirred the rage of a long-dead spectre. Massive doorwings were trembling with minute charge, jolting forcibly stasis-induced system to life as a sudden shockwave shattered impossibly dense black quartz. Imploding countless vines of silver, hematite and gold specifically nurtured to shackle movement, the deafening cry of a resetting vocalizer rang discordantly with the shaking world above.

Deadly gold-tapered claws were tearing through millions of micron threads pierced through bicoloured armour, the heat searing off ancient energy stasis-lines as the newly woken mechanical surveyed long-greyed plating spread far beneath his feet. He had been suspended in the body of a massive black crystal, his captors having sealed themselves inside an ancient chamber below to prevent any means of escape.

_Such barbarism, _he hissed.

A roar of absolute fury tore itself from the depths of his spark, weakened pedes striking deafeningly across rusted ion floors as rare silver optics cycled on and off in search of freedom. There was no remorse for the bodies he trampled. A Primal sword, forged in the liquid core of a dying nebula; emitted strobes of starlight for every cycle of his systems as hitching vents struggled to stabilize after so many vorns spent in dormancy.

It was painfully to be, to _breathe_, to_ move_…to _think. _Silent footsteps were cutting a path towards the sound of pure destruction, an age-old gift of his former designation rising to the surface as elegantly raised audials pinged and dissected incoming ordnance with perfect accuracy. _He_ had been bred for war, an overactive tac-net flaring to life as an upsurge in mass hysteria wove painfully through his spreading field.

The usual calm of the city was vibrating with frenetic frequency, bringing forth a painful reminder of just _what_ he had woken to as a glittering chevron, crafted from sensor-enriched red garnet, followed every shudder and twitch of broad, seeker-kin, panels mounted on his back. The doorwings were attuned to every lick of flame, dust and possible threat racing toward him as elegant Primely audials screeched with new input.

The once peaceful Praxus was engulfed in an ocean of spiralling flame, the distant sound of plasma canons and detonating bombs kindling long-deactivated protocols as twin swords graced gold-filigreed talons. They were transforming into a glaive far deadlier than the warrior's already imposing stance, leaving the holy Crucis deliberately sheathed on his back.

There was no time to pander to tradition, he knew. He _prowled_ instead, a fireburst of stealth felling any victim daring enough to step into his path as a close optic lingered on warmongering outlanders mounting an attack against the city's dwindling Enforcers.

Inside a whirring processor, sharp optics tracked and calculated thousands of bomb trajectories as they churned to simulate countless possible victories in mere milikliks.

_'Rise and fall, my kin.' _He growled darkly._ 'We may counteth the stars on Mortilus' spark but let us not transcend his cruelty. Only_ one_ may affirm the steel in our bones, only _one_ shall make us move.'_ The language of the Primes was rumbling ominously from his vocalizer, the ancient hymn vibrating regal grace and chaotic death into sharply raised sensor panels.

It was a Praxian call to arms, a threat that this should never have happened. Praxus should _never_ have tasted war, not when too many innocents had already been laid down to consecrate these grounds. Yet, even as gold Energon dripped from the ancient's wounds, the instability and agonizing pain of several millions vorns spent in stasis was not _enough_ to temper the valiance of his spark.

To his descendants, lost in the fringes of despair, he was an image of impossible beauty and untouchable strength. With a veil of starlight sweeping across his back, imposing spears dancing in his servos and predatory grace shining like a beacon in the deafening chaos, he was a supernova untainted by the poison and death spread beneath his pedes.

His steadying field was flowing in vast waves from iridescent black and white armour, the tail end of the battle he had woken to now a mere whisper of the destruction he could wreak in a single orn. Nothing could stop the prowling Prime, not when he had decided to eradicate the hatred and cunning that stood in his way.

No, _Iridescus_ was oh-so eager to orchestrate his vengeance for the freedom and right stolen from his servos.

**. . .**

Guttering sparks, greyed plating…horrific gore, lost limbs, innocent sparklings painted with their inner-most Energon, torn apart progenitors, soldiers, exposed processors, leaking internals, caved in helms—. Ratchet didn't know what was worse, the fact that there was currently no sign of civilian survivors or the military manoeuvres he had been forced to take part in to protect his patients.

The battle for Praxus had entered its third orn mere kliks ago, leaving the Autobot Chief Medical Officer waning with little to no recharge and mourning countless innocent protoforms blackening beneath skilled fingertips. Some barely stayed alive the few breems it would take to save their lives, choosing instead to return to the Well of Sparks rather than face destruction.

The very surface of the planet seemed to be howling with pain, the sound raking painfully against sensitive audials as it twisted purpose-built Healer coding into uneasy compliance. The last of the forces were scrambling to infiltrate a new weakness in the Decepticon frontline, regardless of how much the Medic wanted to howl his fury.

He could only watch as the few he saved prepared to squander his gift, leading the charge now that a staggering 73% success rate had been calculated. It could have come from the sudden retreat of Seekers or the few inexperienced grunts left behind to cover their backs. But in the end, it was the comms crackling to life with outrages reports of a single mech rising to flip the tide.

Inside the Autobot High Command, Prime's tacticians were eager to seize whatever small opportunity they could find. It was only at his _friend's _behest that Ratchet took control of the remaining rescue 'bots and headed for the bombed-out remains of the Helix metropolis.

There was no telling what they would find in the latest atrocity, dirty and dinged Alt modes cautiously manoeuvring around massive craters, twisted steel and towering spires reduced to nothing but ash. An ocean of corpses were left choking grotesquely on their own melted internals, greyed-out plating near unrecognizable in the light of Cybertron's twin moons as Praxus grieved its loss with Energon scars cracked deep into the planet surface.

In the distance, a broken star was flickering mournfully on the black horizon. Its movement was arrhythmic to every pedestep crossing a fallen civilian, only Ratchet's long-range scanners powerful enough to realize the shimmering brightness could not be what they first thought. The Medic was struggling to contain a sudden spark of hope, a flare of wild spark energy singling him out with invasive _threat,_ _danger, halt, I defend_.

The wildly fluctuating frequency was attempting to hack the intention of his approach, its inherent discord with fine-tuned systems screeching wildly against sensitive audials as it pushed a flare of nausea deep into the pit of Ratchet's tanks.

"Frag!" He hissed abruptly, there was no need for his field to contain anything but his desire to _help, shield, heal _and _protect. _The Senior Medic hadn't been forged for violence after all, he absolutely deplored taking any part in it. And maybe, _maybe_ the strength of his will would be enough to assure their possible survivor/enemy/ally he—.

_"Identify yourself, Master Healer."_ An ancient rumble infiltrated his helm, vibrating at a frequency so old it was probably obsolete. _Oh Primus_! The sound of Higher Cybertronian was like a kick to the faceplates, a language Ratchet had never heard spoken outside of medical or political studies. Not to mention the depth of the voice itself was layered with such unwavering command, it couldn't belong to any civilian.

Quick to transform out of his Alt mode, dexterous palms spread in a universal sign for peace the moment a tall being stepped out from behind a massive crumbling crystal structure. There was a protective arm wrapped over elegant black and white warrior-grade armour, a deadly spear levelled at the Medic's spark chamber as rare silver optics cycled through several defensive settings to lessen the burden on already slowing systems.

Gold-laced Energon was dripping from several crude slashes dug into iridescent plating, the disjointed warbles and keens of a crying sparkling drawing anxious blue optics towards a small mass squirming in distress against the mech's heaving chest.

"Primus—"

"_Identify yourself and state_ _your business, Master Healer."_ The voice commanded, switching to cruder and heavier glyphs as a lithe torso bowed protectively over its treasure. It had been a very long time since Ratchet had come across the theory of a warrior activating creator coding in the middle of a warzone, a shiver of sheer trepidation raking down his backstruts as he forced himself to supress the instinctive need to _run._

_"Easy,"_ He soothed quietly, taking a tentative but firm step forward. "My name is Ratchet, Chief Medical Officer, Senior Field Medic and Head Surgeon of Iacon General. I'm here to help." Several non-invasive scans were flicking over battle-hardened systems, catching a bare glimpse of the tiny new-spark nestled against its protector as the little one continued to wail in obvious distress.

"You are injured." He noted calmly, observing a surge of cold understanding seeping over silver optics as a garnet chevron dipped down to gaze at the small frame nestled against Energon stained plating. Ratchet wasn't so sure the life-blood had come from the warrior himself—.

"Master Healer…Ratchet, I do not care for myself." The warrior intoned calmly. "The little one is frightened and in need of help. He has hurt his head." Regal movements were easing the mech's injured frame to the ground, offering a rare display of implicit trust as the red and white Medic made sure to alert everyone in close proximity that his current location was off limits.

"Would you mind?" Holding out crimson servos in askance for the small spark, blue optics never once dropped away from wary silver as he knelt on the ground before them. _"I'll_ be the one to decide the state of your injuries. _Both_ of you."

Easing the teek of annoyance in his field at the warrior's barked 'I'm fine,', it only took a few kliks for the reluctant progenitor to entrust his sparkling to Ratchet. Grim faceplates seemed to hesitate for a long time before a pained hiccup from the little one prompted the larger mech to hand over the tiny Praxian.

"His designation?"

_"Bluestreak,"_ _Laser focus, straight shot_; the glyphs rang mournfully. Carefully cradling the grey frame against his hip, Ratchet hummed quietly as he ran a cautious palm over the crack in a small red chevron and dented helm. There was nothing more serious than a few damaged wires, singed sensors, a worrying tick in the little vocalizer and cosmetic dings.

Small doorwings were fluttering in panicked exhaustion however, prompting the ambulance to slip a small diagnostic cable into the sparkling's systems before administering a mild sedative code.

"It'll be alright," He soothed the agitated creator, rocking the little one to ease his distress as brilliant blue optics dimmed in recharge. He had always harboured a soft spot for new sparks, smiling in relief as the little survivor's restless field shifted from pain and confusion to calm neutrality instead.

"It is best to let his self-repair run for now, there are no serious injuries I can fix out here."

Ignoring several distressed medics pinging his system with their failure to find more survivors, blue optics turned back to the large warrior nodding his understanding. The iridescent mech was shakily pushing himself to his feet, massive doorwings vibrating with immense strain as it took leaning on a deadly spear to stabilize his stance once upright.

"Thank you, Master Ratchet—."

"Hey! Where do you think you are going?!" The Medic hissed incredulously. "You need to be treated!" Raising a hand to forestall any attempt at arguing, Ratchet could only stare in dismay as several drops of Energon formed a small pool at his patient's feet. It was cause enough for him to leap forward and grab the Praxian's arm, Bluestreak still resting contentedly against a red hip as firm servos dug into slow heating armour.

"Apologies Master Healer, I cannot stay." The Praxian was polite in glyph if not rudely commanding. "If I have awakened in this era, so will _he._ And—." Reaching up to twist a major fuel in warning, a deadly glare pinned the mech's class size exactly where he stood. With such a strong noble bearing, there was no doubt the warrior was connected to the higher caste.

Yet, right now they were victims. What authority did a Praxian noble have with his city in ruins at his feet?

::Ratchet, I'm pulling the rescue operation back.:: His comm. suddenly crackled, startling a jump out of him as a spear tip rested threateningly against his spark chamber once more. ::I cannot guarantee your safety out there any longer. Did you find any survivors?::

::Two.:: He returned curtly, flicking his gaze towards silver optics cycling down in challenge.

::I-I might need your help,:: He was reluctant to say, refusing to back down just as much as current opponent. ::This one is going to be trouble, he simply reeks of power. I don't think I can stop him if he wants to leave but he clearly needs my help. He's badly injured—.::

::I'm on my way, old friend. Hold on for a few kliks.::

"Let me go, Healer—."

"No," Ratchet returned equally stubbornly. "You need to stay the slag still! If you widen the tear in one more fuel line, I'm going to let you bleed out here in the dust!" The distant sound of gunfire was slowly creeping closer, causing a notable change in the warrior's stance as stoic faceplates flared with dark agitation.

"It won't matter. I should have been dead vorns ago, Medic. I WAS dead." The words sounded bitter and sharp, an indication of a failing will to live as the Medic played one last desperate card. Carefully shielding Bluestreak on his hip, he invaded the Praxian warrior's imposing field as he sent out a continuous wave of _safe, protect from harm_ and _calm_.

"Not now, you don't. You have something to live for, this child isn't going to take abandonment well. And if that isn't enough, I'm sure the Prime can give you a new function to fulfil." That seemed to still the black and white, elegant audials twitching in confusion as if he wasn't quite sure what he heard before silver-white optics turned to roam the war distorted horizon.

"We need to move, Ratchet! The platoon's mobilizing. I'll escort you to the shuttle…" The careening arrival of Optimus Prime, startled both mechs from their silent stand-off.

_"Move!"_ The Prime's voice was deafening in the dead silence, layered with unquestionable authority as they had no choice but to fold down into their own alternate modes. The iridescent warrior was just as resistant to obeying the new mech's lead as he was to submitting to Ratchet's medical field, only following out of courtesy because Ratchet slid a sleeping Bluestreak into his commander's cab.

It was no doubt the safest place for a sparkling to be, even if it added incentive for his progenitor to follow.

"Your name, warrior?" Optimus asked not long after they crossed the barrier into the dismantled Autobot camp, having gotten enough information from Ratchet over a private comm. that told him too little and far too much.

_"Prowl."_ Came the deep reply. _Stealth, determination — flightless spear_, the glyphs clear cut in a language that startled the young Prime violently. There was a shaky vent spilling from the depths of his cab, careful sensors only now realizing the _Language of the Primes_ was feeding far more information and caution into his spark than ever before.

Ratchet didn't seem to spare much thought to the unusual events, only now realizing their companion's sleek aerodynamic curves and equally imposing angles as he reluctantly followed them into the shuttles main bay. Sharp crystals protrusions were dug artfully into iridescent plating, gold and twining silver filigree chains laid in worship across sleek black doorwings and rich armour flares far deadlier and more beautiful than any Cybertronian has seen since the fall of the Golden Age.

"Who are you? _What _are you?" The Prime's question seemed to be ignored in favour of a warning, the iridescent mech settled down with a pained shudder as he rolled forward in a mock bow.

_"If he follows me, young Prime, do not stand in his way." _The words were calm but carefully controlled._ "Let him through, his destruction is not yours to command. He belongs to me."_

"Prowl? Who?"

"My _Lord High Protector."_

**_. . . _**

Mercury smooth movement, a collision of phosphorescent metal and sliding Energon. The last of an unfortunate mech's life was dripping from tapered black talons, a hiss of laughter echoing chaotically from a wildly fluctuating field as filigreed silver and hematite markings — burned into opalescent black plating — lengthened a deadly shadow rising like Mortilus from the ruins of Praxus.

Gold optics barely acknowledged the fear, awe and battle-lust directed at his merciless display, merely moving across a field of melted corpses, rusted iron splinters and crying dead. An unbending conscience refused to pander to the screams of his enemies, intimidating black and white doorwings rising high above tapered shoulder struts as a nonchalant flick of his primary weapon delivered it from another stain of unblessed Energon.

The distinctive call of a familiar spark was racing erratically against his own, abruptly changing the rhythm of his emotion as he waited patiently for the inevitable collision that was to come. Survival should not be taken for granted out here, he mused. Not with the full range of brother's tac-net.

His own systems were struggling to regulate after too many vorns spent in stasis, a single vent dispelling several layers of crystalline dust clinging to dark armour as a racing processor analysed decakilometers of pure destruction around him. He was finally free of the Energon stasis-lines that pierced iridescent plating, igniting a desperate need to escape within him as he cursed those daring enough take advantage of their weakness.

_Iridescus Prime_ had been born as two sides of the same coin. They could not enter or leave this world without the other. As a single spark split between two frames, it was unusual to remain separate for long. Primus ordained them harbingers of peace, warriors with the strength and cunning to outwit wars and change the suffering of thousands of mechanicals.

Many corrupt quelled at a mere whisper of their names, even vorns after the Royal court had betrayed them.

_Obscuron_, the one who _eclipses, rectifies loss and rules over anarchy_, was his brother's Lord High protector. An immovable blockade. Though he honoured duty and command above all else, he was far more likely to rely on emotion than logic. That crafted a natural buffer against Prowl's rigid cold, the white to his brother's black or the black to his white when necessity dictated.

Originally designated Barricade: _honour-bound, resistant_ and _vectored in trust_, before their ascension; there were just some things that were not meant to be controlled. Barricade was one of those things, even when he continuously sought out the stability from the other half of his spark.

Standing amongst the ruins of their greatest creation now, there was no need to restrain his vengeance any longer. He was crossing the last of the grounds once consecrated by his life-blood, golden optics cycling towards fire exploding across the horizon as he tore through the last of his opposition.

Determined to survive, the dark Praxian swore to defend his kin until the last beat of his spark. And as the eerie stillness of the dead spread through the desecrated Helix metropolis, silent pedesteps followed the path his twin carved into the city before him. There was nothing left to stand in his way, no other mech possessed the privilege of his command.

Travelling the cracked roads that lead towards the Towers of Iacon, there was an excited thrumming in his spark that assured him things were about to change now that he had awakened. His Alt mode may have been heavy and cumbersome, built for force more than speed, yet never let it be said that he did not live up to his designations.

With only one goal to achieve, every other obstacle in his path washed itself away like water. He was coming for his Prime, and behold, his brother's spark was racing with a duel frequency of apprehension, caution and reckless excitement against his.

"It was had been too long." He whispered, voice heavy with unspoken glyphs as it echoed into the distance.

Yes, he was certain he had chosen the right path.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading, my Darlings. I do hope I've given you something new and intriguing to pursue. It has been an absolute delight to write as well. :)

The list is as follows:  
Prowl - Main IDW look with Prime's Audials from the Bay Movies. Also Prime's size.  
Barricade - Identical to his twin, only inverted in colours.  
Ratchet - IDW - who may later change to Bay Movies  
Optimus Prime - Bay Movies  
Ironhide - Bay Movies  
Bluestreak - IDW  
Skyfire - IDW with some changes (will be explored when he is introduced in the next chapter.)

The rest I'll work out when the characters become more relevant.

Other than that, thank you for reading my Honeys. :) I'll hopefully see you soon with another update. If I could ask for a tiny review, I'd be eternally grateful to you. I'd very much like to know if it was an enjoyable read.

Yours Always  
Chocolate Carnival


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